


If You Close Your Eyes

by keep_me_alone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humour, Implied/Referenced Underage, McGonagall makes all the fucking puns, No Smut, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Romance, Sirius and Snape obviously still hate each other, Tragic Romance, a tragedy in three acts but not really lmfao, harry is referenced a lot, remus is mentioned a few times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 04:52:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_me_alone/pseuds/keep_me_alone
Summary: After his time in Azkaban, Sirius returns to his childhood home and rediscovers that he still shares a romantic spark with Minerva. Mostly canon compliant, doesn't end well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alien_lord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alien_lord/gifts).



> Bring the tissues bitch
> 
> If you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing's changed at all? And if you close your eyes does it almost feel like you've been here before?

Sirius Black stood in front of the door. It was polished, black and, set into drab gray stone. He took a deep breath. The whole damn building was ugly. He was surprised that the Blacks hadn’t done anything about it, if he was being quite honest. There wasn’t much else he could say about Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The location was bad, the neighbourhood dirty. But apparently none of that really mattered when you could just curse any Muggle who got in your way. He still hadn’t so much as put a hand on the knob. It was an ugly place with an ugly history that he had long ago decided not to be a part of. And yet here he was.

Sirius went in. He’d half expected something to jump out at him, but nothing did. The house was utterly silent and still. His throat felt thick. Definitely the dust. No one had been here for years. Sirius himself hadn’t set foot in the house for twenty. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He could practically still hear his mother screeching at the house elves. He walked slowly up all the creaky stairs to his old room. The door was locked, but a quick charm took care of that.

The room was not quite exactly as he’d left it. Most of his personal effects had been removed, which wasn’t surprising. His mother had likely tried to remove every trace of him. She’d blasted his portrait off of the family tree. He’d seen on the way up. Sirius flopped onto his bed. A cloud of dust billowed up around him. He sneezed and coughed at the same time, which felt like hell. It took him a while to catch his breath and suddenly, Sirius was exhausted. His eyes drifted half closed as he looked up at the pinups stuck to his roof. They were eerily still, not blinking, not breathing, lifeless, just like the rest of the house. He slept.

The next morning, while Sirius was cooking breakfast, he discovered the screaming portrait of his mother. Although it had been years, he recognized her voice instantly. The pan of sausage he was cooking fell from his hands, splashing him with hot grease. She was here. He didn’t bother to pick it up or turn off the stove, he sprinted through the house towards the sound.

“Filthy blood traitor,” she screamed, “in my pure house, dirtying my pure house.” His heart was beating out of his chest. His fingers were numb. She was here _. She was here._ And then he’d stopped in front of the portrait. He’d tried to speak to her, but she’d only screamed. It was his mother. Sirius hadn’t seen her in years, hadn’t even been told when she died and here she was, yellow skin stretched tightly over her face, spit flying from her mouth and dripping down her chin.

It had taken him a long time to recognize that he was only looking at a portrait. It was the frame that gave it away. He felt choked as he yanked the curtains over it. After a few minutes, she stopped.

Sirius slid to the floor. He tipped his head back against the wall. He was covered in grime now, like the rest of the house. He didn’t move for a long time. Sirius just sat, head in his arms, listening to his mother mutter behind the curtain. He forgot about his breakfast, didn’t even notice the spilled sausage that had cleaned itself up, the oven turned off. Sirius went back up to his room. He’d hidden there as a child, and he’d hide there now. Nothing had changed, not really.

***

It was a week before anyone came to see him. A week of breathing dust and stale air and trying to waste his time as efficiently as possible. It was Dumbledore who visited. He wanted something, of course. Their conversation was odd and a little strained on Sirius’s part, but he offered 12 Grimmauld as a meeting house for The Order. He wanted to see people again. They made it official, performed the charm that would allow Dumbledore to be the secret keeper, and then he was gone, and Sirius was alone again.

That was also when he met and banished Kreacher. He was wandering around the front corridor with a bucket of disinfectant, trying to clean everything Dumbledore had touched, while muttering vile curses.  Sirius had hated the unpleasant thing as a child, and he hated him more now. He was a living, breathing reminder of everything Sirius had despised. He couldn’t stand the sight of him.

His next visitor came a few days later, while he was laying on the couch listening to some inane radio show. Unlike Dumbledore, this visitor rang the doorbell, instead of just walking in. On cue, the portrait started shrieking. Sirius hoped that his guest couldn’t hear it outside. The stupid thing was impossible to shut up, even pulling on the curtain as hard as he could. When he managed it, Sirius opened the door and stood there dumbly for a moment. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“Well?” She said, in her prim Scottish accent. “Are you going to let me in, Mr. Black?” Sirius moved out of the way as she walked in. She opened her mouth to speak but Sirius cut her off.

“Not here,” he whispered, thinking of the portrait. McGonagall raised one thin eyebrow, but nodded and followed him into the living room he’d been skulking in. Sirius didn’t say anything, just drank in the sight of her. It had been twelve long years since they’d spoken, since he’d even seen her. She’d aged since then. Her hair was a little thinner, a little grayer, her wrinkles more pronounced. Sirius had never seen anyone so beautiful in his entire life. Without any real warning, he wrapped his arms around her. They were exactly the same height and for a moment, when he closed his eyes, nothing had changed.

McGonagall pressed her cheek against his, as Sirius shook. He wasn’t exactly crying, but emotion was rolling off of him in an tangible wave. Sirius got control of himself and pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face. Behind her glasses, her eyes were full and bright.

“I’ve missed you,” he said simply. He cupped her face in both hands, marvelling at her soft skin, the texture of her hair, the fragile feeling of her in his arms. She was so thin. Sirius knew he didn’t look much better. Azkaban hadn’t been good to him. He was half starved and the circles under his eyes looked like permanent bruises. At least, since he’d been home, he’d charmed his teeth right and shaved most of his beard. He knew he looked older than his thirty five years, and didn’t know whether she could still see in him traces of the young man he’d been more than a decade previous. He didn’t know how she felt about him after all these years.

McGonagall could see the hesitancy in his face. She’d spent nearly twelve years hating him after their affair. It was understandable. He’d killed the Potters, betrayed them all. But now, now he looked vulnerable, almost ill and so unsure it broke her heart. She tilted her head and kissed him. Sirius sighed softly into her. Their kiss wasn’t long, but it was slow and deep and sweet.

“So, you missed me too, Minni,” his grin lit up his whole face. McGonagall smacked his chest.

“Sirius Arcturus Black. Do _not_ start with me.” He kissed her again for good measure. They sat on the couch together, both smiling, both a little tearful. Neither of them really knowing what to say.

“It’s been so long,” Sirius murmured, looking at their entwined hands, and then, “Sorry about the mess.”

“You have always been messy,” Sirius understood that she wasn’t just talking about his space.

“You heard then?” He asked, looking intently into her face. She cocked her head slightly. “I didn’t do it. It was Peter.”

“The despicable rat,” Sirius chuffed a laugh, surprised, not knowing whether the pun was intentional or not. McGonagall smirked at him.

“This isn’t what I imagined,” Sirius said after a moment of silence.

“Did you imagine that we’d fall madly into bed together? Run off together?” Her question was wry, maybe a little irritated. He grinned and looked up at the ceiling.

“To be fair, when I imagined us meeting again, you were rather younger, less clothes too, I think.” She made a noise, definitely annoyed now and he turned serious. “I never imagined it would be in another war.” He looked at her, his wide eyes dark and sad. “We’ve been through ours already.” She leaned into him.

“I know.”

“I’m scared.” He almost whispered it.

“I know.” He tipped his head to rest it gently against hers. It wasn’t like before when he was young and full of fire, and she’d been full of wrath and fury. They were older, tired. They’d faced the cost of war before, knew intimately the secrets of loss, what they stood to lose this second time around. He kissed her hair.

Sirius didn’t need McGonagall to tell him that they had to stay and fight. He was more than ready to defend them, to die even, but he’d just gotten free. He had Harry now, and Minerva and Remus, and a million other reasons to live. He wanted to live again before he died.


	2. Chapter 2

The days dragged by. Sirius was most often left alone in the house. Occasionally Something would happen, and the Order would have to have a meeting in his house, but these meetings were frustrating too. Dumbledore wouldn’t let him do anything. He was going stir crazy. Not to mention the fact that these meetings almost always brought Snivellus skulking along.

Ironically enough, these visits were some of the most entertaining times Sirius had at 12 Grimmauld Place. Severus had accepted food from him a grand total of one times. A glass of “orange juice” made with Kraft Dinner powder. The look on that pinched, sallow face! Obviously not something he could do again, but worth it.

He’d charmed the door so that every time Severus walked into the place, balloons would flood the hallway. Sometimes he tweaked that one to add loud shouts of ‘surprise’, which also triggered the portrait of his mother to start screaming. He’d stopped doing that after Molly Weasley had had a few words for him, though.

One time, he’d waited for Severus to go to the washroom and done a tricky piece of transfiguration to change the hand soap into something that would merely make his hands slippery. He’d come out, glared at Sirius and stalked off, his hands dry as a bone. Sirius found this both amusing and disgusting. He had, however, in his delight, forgotten to change the soap _back,_ and received another stern talking to by Molly Weasley who, by unfortunate accident, had discovered the switch.

Minerva visited as often as she was able. Not often enough though. Harry came even less, but between the two of them, their brief appearances helped to keep Sirius relatively sane as the weeks passed.

When Minerva did visit, they played wizard chess. She destroyed him. Every game. Without fail. So, when she was gone, he practiced. It didn’t really help, and although their matches occasionally drew longer, he couldn’t know whether it was a result of his own effort, or whether she was toying with him. Currently, he suspected the latter. She’d had him neatly boxed into a corner for several moves, and was picking off his pieces one by one.

“Are you ever going to let me win?” Sirius asked, directing his knight.

“Absolutely not. You would never learn,” she replied sternly, taking the knight with her bishop.

“I’m not sure I’m learning now,” Sirius grinned at her.

“Nonsense.” She checked him three moves later.

“I am convinced,” Sirius said as they mended their chess pieces for the next game, “that you are the best chess player in the country.” She smiled at him, light glinting on her glasses.

“The continent, surely.” Sirius kissed her hand, twining his fingers through hers. He simply didn’t have the words to express how much he adored her.

“Do you think you’ll stay at Hogwarts?” He asked her a few minutes later, “after the war, I mean.” Minerva looked up from the chessboard.

“Why do you ask?” Sirius brushed his fingertips over the side of her face.

“We could go somewhere nice,” he said, “live in a little house by the sea, where there’s room to breathe.”

“With proper shingles and round windows,” she almost smiled, but there was sadness in her face too, and something else.”

“And the wind blows across the fields, and we can all play Quidditch any time, because there’s no Muggles anywhere around.” Minerva raised one eyebrow.

“All of us?” She asked, and her voice had turned a little steely and professional. Sirius grinned, a little sheepishly, and the expression took years off of his face. For a moment, he was almost the boy she’d taught so many years ago. Then of course, he spoke.

“Harry will be coming, obviously.” He looked up to gauge her reaction. Minerva sighed, a little dramatically he thought.

“Have I not raised the child enough already?”

“He’s hardly a boy now. And with everything he’s been through…” Sirius trailed off with a shrug. “I can’t abandon him.”

“I am not asking you to. Mr. Potter is a wonderful boy,” she smiled over her spectacles. “I do wonder if he might find it a little strange, however.”

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Sirius said quietly. Minerva snorted.

“Somebody had to.” She said stiffly. He looked at her brown eyes steady and sad. “Don’t give me those puppy eyes. It isn’t _your_ fault.” He didn’t ask whose fault it was, just turned his gaze down again. He didn’t want to get into all of this now. Not when they had so little time.

They’d set up the board again and began a new game, not really speaking or looking at each other much, both lost in their own thoughts. It seemed to Sirius, that there was a swinging blade strung up above them, falling progressively lower and closer as a giant clock ticked the seconds away. Ready of not, the war was coming. Ready or not, people were going to start dying. He tried to push the thoughts away. He would have time to brood later, when Minerva had gone. He didn’t know if she would stay the night. She usually didn’t.

As Minerva studied the board, Sirius studied her, the hard lines in her face, the light hairs on the soft skin of her cheeks. He marvelled at every wrinkle that had cemented or appeared in the last twelve years.

“This isn’t how I thought it would be,” Sirius told her, abandoning the game they’d just started, and draping himself over the couch. She followed him, after a moment, leaning into his side.

“No,” she agreed. Minerva rested her head on his shoulder, causing her glasses to fall just slightly crooked.

“I always imagined that our reunion would be much more… passionate,” he admitted, grinning. Minerva scoffed at him, scooting away.

“Sirius Black, I am an old woman! I do not have the kind of energy for that kind of reunion.” She poked him hard in the ribs, and he laughed.

“You mean you don’t have the energy to satisfy me?” He asked, pretending shock, “we had some pretty good sex in our day though, didn’t we?”

“We still have good sex,” she grumbled, “It’s just less rambunctious than it was.”

“Wouldn’t want you to break a hip,” Sirius agreed. Minerva pushed herself away from him to lean against the opposite arm of the couch.

“You are incurably rude,” she kicked at him. Sirius caught her foot, rubbed his hand up her leg, grinning. Minerva gave him a Look. It was one of her best teacher looks, and just as he had years ago, Sirius ignored it. He leaned over, wiggling until his body covered hers. He supported himself on his elbows to avoid accidentally smothering her. Sirius kissed her, very gently, could feel her relaxing.

“We are not,” she said, “fucking on this couch after the conversation we just had.” She sounded less severe than she’d meant to.

“Okay,” Sirius agreed, rolling behind her, squishing himself between her and the back of the couch.

“I meant for you to find us a bed,” she explained with exaggerated patience.

“Really though, I’m quite comfortable here, actually,” Sirius said, nuzzling into her neck.

“And when do you expect your next conjugal visit to be?” She asked primly. Sirius half groaned, half laughed, pulling her closer.

“That’s not funny.” She hmmed at him. He made her suffer for a few more minutes before disentangling himself and helping her up.

“You win,” he smiled, “let’s find a bed then.”

“I would have assumed that you would have remembered where your bedroom was,” she replied. Sirius grimaced.

“Only if you promise not to laugh. I decorated when I was fifteen.” She grinned wolfishly at him.

“I promise no such thing.” Sirius sighed and kissed her, first on the lips, then the corner of her jaw.

“You’ll be the death of me.”

Sirius dragged Minerva up the flights and flights of dusty stairs to his attic room.  He hesitated at the door for just a moment before opening it and letting them both inside. She stepped into the middle of the room, turning to see it all better, both eyebrows creeping upwards as she took in the mostly naked women, many of them suggestively posed on gleaming black motorcycles. The banners, bedspread and hangings she could appreciate, she had her own Gryffindor pride after all, but good lord, it was plastered across every other spare inch of the room.

“This is dreadful,” she told him, almost impressed by how much it oozed rebellious and obnoxious teenager. She could still smell the cologne he had regularly doused himself with, lingering in the fabrics of the room among the must that had settled in over the years.

“If the women weren’t permanently charmed to stick to the wall, I’d’ve taken them down. Sirius shrugged one shoulder. Minerva snorted at him.

“Not your most convincing lie, Mr. Black.” He grinned.

“No, I suppose not.” He shrugged again, more energetically and unbuttoned about half of his shirt before getting impatient and just pulling it over his head. It took her ages to start undressing, so of course he had to help her with that.

The sex that they had was still good. It wasn’t as exciting or new as when he’d been young, and she’d been well, younger, but it was playful and fun, and they stayed wrapped up in each other for a long time afterwards. 


	3. Chapter 3

They didn’t have very much time together. Most of it had been lost while he suffered in Azkaban. More of it was lost running, hiding in 12 Grimmauld Place.

  
And then Sirius had died. He’d fallen through the veil, smiling and victorious, laughter on his lips. He hadn’t heard the screams tearing through his godson’s chest. He hadn’t seen Remus’s blank expression as he realized he was the last Marauder standing. He had just fallen peacefully away from this world that had caused him so much pain.  
  
McGonagall didn’t even hear until much later, until after the battle was over and Dumbledore had returned to tell her in person. She felt as though she’d been doused in icy water, didn’t hear Dumbledore calling her name, pushed his hand off of her shoulder.  
  
“I’d like to be alone,” she told him. He’d let her go, reluctantly, and she had retreated to her office. It was hard to be in a room that also held so many memories of Sirius. She’d pulled him in here to lecture him after so many classes. They’d shared a furtive kiss here once.  
  
McGonagall sat at her desk and stared up at the ceiling. Her eyes were dry. She felt monstrous because in a way, it was almost a relief for Sirius to have died. He had been trapped in so many places, growing up in his family home, then literally confined there on Dumbledore’s orders, twelve eternal years in Azkaban. She couldn’t imagine him coming back as a ghost. He was free now, and it was probably for the best.  
  
McGonagall wanted to cry, but couldn’t find the tears. She felt dry and hollow, an empty husk. She gathered up the things she needed and retreated to her bedroom. It wouldn’t do to feel this now, when there were still so many things to be done. Her students needed her. Dumbledore needed her. There would be time for grief after the war.  
  
And so, she went on.


End file.
